


Watching the Watchman

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e10 Mirror Mirror, Episode: s03e10 For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Triumvirate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Five times Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock went all protective on Dr. McCoy, and one time McCoy showed them that he doesn't need y'all's coddling and can darn well take care of himself, thanks very much.Tag warning refers only to Chapter One, taking place directly after the events of Mirror, Mirror.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock
Comments: 21
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of xenophobia (racism), which I hope isn't in bad taste given current events. If someone is offended by any phraseology of mine, please do educate me accordingly, as these are old stories and I am continuously trying to learn.

**VI.**

Leonard H. McCoy has always thought he's one of the most open-minded people in the history of space exploration. You have to be, to be a doctor – and a darn good one, thank you – much less a CMO of a famous exploratory Federation starship. And despite a fairly rigid upbringing in Earth's old "Bible Belt," he's fairly sure he's a bit more tolerant of controversial issues than many a still old-fashioned Southern boy might be. Bigotry and xenophobia have no place in Starfleet, and a man who judges based upon appearance, age, disability, orientation or anything else for that matter, has no place in an organization that professes to be equal-opportunity.

He's even written a small paper on the subject and had it published in a fairly prestigious galactic medical journal, revolving around the fact that there still is no female captain of a constitution-class starship within such a supposed equal-opportunity organization, and he was a little shocked at the controversial outcry it produced when it was published. The primary reason usually cited for the lack of female captains is quasi-medical in nature; namely, that their more emotional temperaments and physiology do not make for a hardened command presence under intense stress.

And that, as every medical officer knows, is a load of absolute bull. There are plenty of male and non-binary crewmen who are as volatile-tempered or more so than any female he's ever encountered, and there are plenty of female-identifying command officers in the Fleet who have never had a concern raised about their suitability to command. Sure, there are cases, as there are in any species, of certain candidates being obviously unsuitable for command – but that's not by any stretch related to their biological gender, and it's actually only humans who still hold to that highly outdated opinion.

Weirdly enough, it was the Vulcans who, just last year, cited his little provocative paper the most favorably in the VSA's primary scientific journal, pointing out with what was the equivalent of Vulcan smugness that they've had female starship captains for at least a century, and what does that tell you about your ridiculously emotional lifestyle and outdated prejudice, you illogical humans.

All that to say, Leonard McCoy has always been one of the least prejudiced humans he knows.

And then, he transfers aboard the _Enterprise_ , and is thrown into contact with the ship's Vulcan First Officer, one Lieutenant-Commander Spock.

And, he suddenly finds himself battling prejudice for the first time in his personal life.

It isn't so much that the Commander's Vulcan, though that certainly gives him a starting reference point for what really gets under his skin. It isn't the pointed ears, or the intimidating intelligence, or the superhuman strength, or even the perfect emotional detachment – nothing that makes Spock Vulcan is what really irks him, what raises his hackles quicker than any other crewman aboard can, including Jim Kirk at his most aggravating. It's not the quiet, almost shy, lack of interaction with other crewmen (though that's changing as the captain slowly breaks through that invisible armor), nor the refusal to retaliate when his best insults are flung at that impeccably-groomed head.

No, it isn't the fact that Spock is a Vulcan.

Then is it the fact that he's half-human?

Leonard has no idea what would possess any intelligent human woman to marry such a cold-blooded species (he suspects an arranged political marriage, until he meets Lady Amanda Grayson a year later), but that in itself doesn't bother him; it's none of his business, and anyway you can't control who you love, no matter what form that love takes. That, is none of his business.

So it isn't really that Spock's half-human, he realizes, when he sits himself down to analyze his dislike of the man for his own purposes (Captain Kirk – definitely not Jim during that stern talking-to – has delicately raised concerns that McCoy's sarcastic barbs have started rumors aboard that he hates the First Officer, and that's unacceptable behavior in the chain of command). Nope, it's not that he's half human, because the poor devil can hardly help his ancestry.

No, he finally comes to the conclusion that it's the fact Spock refuses to _acknowledge_ that half-human side, in any shape or form, that really gets under his skin.

And that, he realizes with a sudden cold jolt, is actually a form of xenophobia.

It’s not a pleasant thing, realizing for the first time that you’re not the man you always thought. A step; only the first of many, only a cautious one, but a necessary one.

After that brilliant realization, his tone and view of the First Officer change. He still pokes at Spock's humanity and Vulcanity, but there's rarely animosity behind it anymore. He may still try to provoke the man into a verbal sparring match, but he does his best not to do so in front of subordinates, just in case it’s not obvious he does it in jest. He still pushes Spock's buttons every chance he gets, but not out of a desire to force the First Officer into acknowledging his partial-human ancestry.

He just does it now because it's _fun_.

And he never, ever forgets the day when Spock finally breaks out of his non-confrontational shell and pushes _back_.

They're in Officers' Mess at the time, because Kirk has this ridiculous idea in his head that forcing him to eat with Spock will somehow magically show him what the captain obviously sees in the green-blooded encyclopedia. Jim has spent the entirety of the meal either whining about his enforced diet, or refereeing between the two of them when his sniping at Spock is met with only silence and then escalates into something a little too bordering on meanness.

Finally, and he still can't even remember what exactly he said or what started it, Spock calmly lays his fork down on his salad, re-fuses his eyebrows to their proper position, and delivers a terse, pointed verbal smackdown – Vulcan style.

The total unexpectedness of the response (and it was a darn good one, too!) leaves him staring in total shock across the table. Spock only sends him a look that can't be anything but Vulcan smugness, and proceeds to return to his salad.

By the time Jim finally manages to extricate his half-chewed carrot stick from his windpipe, McCoy's grinned and flicked a food cube across the table. Spock's suitably scandalized expression at his human lack of manners is just icing on a very, very tasty cake.

Does it mean they always get along after that? Heck no. He still can't stand Spock when he's at his Vulcan coldest, and Spock is equally annoyed at his continual insistence upon bringing up his half-human side. He still mouths off inappropriately during a crisis, and there's one very tense time that he thinks Spock is actually considering strangling him, during an argument in the transporter room just after they've lost Jim's transponder signal in the middle of a planetary war. He still pokes fun at anything he can that's related to Vulcans, and Spock in turn uses all his command authority to make his life in Medical a nightmare when he does. He still yells and even throws things when Spock refuses to show emotion when McCoy thinks he should, and Spock still delivers scathing, even hurtful retorts when he's under intense stress.

His old psych professor would have called it a dysfunctional relationship, he thinks, but then again don't they all have to be dysfunctional fools, to want to fly around the universe in a glorified sardine tin looking for trouble?

Because when Jim returns from the Preservers' Planet, grieving and furious with both of them but Spock especially, it's to Sickbay Spock goes that evening, long after they both should be sleeping but aren't. And when one of Spock's protégés in Bio Lab Three is seriously injured on a landing party, McCoy makes the first and only house call he's ever made to the First Officer's quarters to let him know she'll be all right with time. When Spock collapses on the Bridge with a high fever one day, scaring the alpha shift crew half to death because he _never_ gets sick – McCoy only is professional as he can be about the whole thing, rather than laughing because the poor fool has somehow contracted chicken pox as a half-human adult (not like he could get it on Vulcan as a little kid, McCoy supposes, and who would think to inoculate a Vulcan against a human childhood illness?).

And then, they get trapped in a mirror universe of their own. A much more bloodthirsty, ruthless, cutthroat universe, where their own counterparts are frighteningly similar yet possessing some crucial differences such as lack of moral restraint and ethics – as if the darkness within each of them has simply been nurtured here instead of buried deep under training and sense of right and wrong.

It's more than a little frightening, and if this is how Spock feels about his own half-human side – that it's a side of him he never wants to see again – then McCoy realizes before they've been in the mirror universe for twelve hours that he has no business trying to provoke Spock into confronting it. This Spock, this cold and ruthless commander – still loyal to his own captain, but so cold-blooded that it makes their Spock look positively human – is what their own First would be, if all that is good and noble about human emotions had been ground out of him by the harsh reality of this world.

He doesn't know what possesses him to not leave the other Spock lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor of that mirror Sickbay; even Jim, though he looks like someone's killing him slowly, is ready to do so. But he's a healer, even if in this mirror universe that's a dubious title at best, and besides there's just something inside him that says if it were his Spock having been attacked by mirror universe counterparts, he would hope that his mirror self would at least make the poor devil comfortable before escaping. It's a matter of ethics, professional and personal, and he can't just walk away without satisfying his own moral code.

He forgets, unfortunately, that this mirror universe – and this version of their Spock – evidently has no concept of morality.

Or consent.

Jim is oblivious afterwards, and McCoy doesn't blame him for that; he's command-focused as James T. Kirk always is, upon fixing every problem he encounters for every _one_ he encounters. McCoy would just as soon see them all kill each other like they obviously plan to, but Jim just _has_ to have the last word, to try and change this icy version of his precious First Officer. When they return safely to their own universe and own _Enterprise_ , the captain's too relieved, and too eager to see what happened to his beloved ship while they were gone, to notice. Uhura and Scotty appear to be just fine, though they promise to make their way to Sickbay shortly for a precautionary checkup, and the two of them leave the transporter room teasing each other about their rather revealing uniforms in that other universe.

He manages to wait, invisible as he unfortunately is so many times, until the door has closed behind them, before his legs finally give out and he collapses more than sits with a thud on the cold transporter pad, willing his hands to stop shaking at the turbulence in his mind.

And it's only then, after he's spent a good ten seconds trying to control his breathing so he doesn't work himself up any further, that he realizes Spock never left the room – is still standing behind the transporter controls, watching him with a hint of unease in his non-expressive features.

His first instinct is to act like nothing's wrong; which is impossible, because he couldn't stand up steady now if he tried, and Spock's no idiot anyhow, clueless as he is about human emotions. His next idea, to wave it off as simple exhaustion, has more merit; it's not entirely a lie, and Spock won't know the difference since he sees humans as the considerably weaker species.

It might have worked, too, had their First Officer not chosen that moment to disregard his own aloof Vulcan-ness. Rounding the transporter station, Spock crouches in front of him, actually showing some mild concern for what has to be the first time McCoy's ever seen, at least directed at him and not the captain.

"Doctor, are you well?" he inquires, and reaches for a discarded tricorder, hesitantly lifting the other hand in some sort of helpless gesture of comfort.

And that's what does it, betrays him to the one person he really, really does not want anywhere near him right now – but those long, thin fingers are too close to his face, and he can't stop the flinch no matter how much he wants to.

The tiny flicker of warmth in Spock's eyes dies out, and he looks a bit…stung, more than anything else. But their First is a Vulcan, and McCoy's never been more grateful for it, because it means Spock doesn't say anything like a human would, only reaches for the tricorder and begins running it over him from the ground up.

The low hum reaches a higher pitch when it reaches his head, and it only then occurs to him. His heart sinks dismally as he realizes that most likely, the medical technology will register any alteration in his brainwave patterns – and that the variance will be at its highest right now. If he could have put the examination off for a few hours, he might have been able to bluff his way out of it. But now…it's obvious from Spock's expression that he can tell something's very different.

Very wrong. And Spock, of all people, would know how to interpret a scan like that.

The whirr reaches a crescendo as the scanner pauses over his frontal lobe – and then suddenly dies with a horrible grinding screech. Startled, he looks up, and sees that the tricorder's now cracked all the way across in a spiderweb of fractures, a few scattered bits of plasticene and duraplas now sprinkled on the floor.

Spock looks down at the instrument, as if he cannot himself believe that he's just broken a tricorder _with his bare hands_ , and then delicately sets the instrument down on the adjoining transporter base – but not before McCoy sees the burning fire of thinly-veiled fury in his eyes, something so dark and so coldly menacing that it's eerily reminiscent of that barbaric mirror universe.

But oddly enough, it's not in the least frightening.

Spock sits back on his heels, and looks at him. The silence is blaring in his ears, ringing and rebounding off the walls and the quiet hum of the ship's engines (or that could just be an effect of the headache, he's not quite sure of much at this point).

"Where was the captain during this?" Spock finally inquires, and there's such a burning edge of potential _murder_ in the tone that he's actually a bit afraid for Jim.

"In the transporter room with the others," he manages quickly, sandwiching his hands between his knees so Spock can't see them shaking. "Left the other you and me in Sickbay, Jim had clocked him over the head and I didn't want to just leave him there to die of an untreated fractured skull..."

"And this, Doctor, is how he repaid that kindness." It's not a question, and he's glad, because he really doesn't want to answer it or even think about it anymore, not now.

"Spock, look –"

"Doctor." The interruption is gentle, far more gentle than he's ever heard from this most unemotional of beings. Spock's eyes are glinting with some weird emotion, not really pity but not compassion either, and still a heck of a lot of barely-controlled anger. He's never seen that before, and it's actually a little comforting. "You have been…most grievously assaulted. I do not know the human protocol for…coping, with such a thing. Would you prefer I remove myself from your presence until I am instructed otherwise?"

He manages a shaky smile, that he's actually quite proud of. And in that moment, he realizes: he'll never fear Spock like you'd think he would, after what happened in that other universe. Something deep inside him knows that while there may be such a side of darkness to Spock here, his Spock would rather die than do such a thing; and it's that instinctual heart-knowledge that lets him take Spock's hesitantly-offered hand and stand to his feet, far more calm than is probably healthy at this point.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Spock," he says, and something seems to snap in the Vulcan's spine; he relaxes slightly, almost becoming smaller, and closes his eyes for a moment. "Walk me to Sickbay, though, will you?"

"I will. But a moment, Doctor." Spock steps to the wall-comm, pressing the private channel button. "Transporter Room Two to Captain Kirk."

_"Kirk here. What is it, Spock?"_

"Sir, I must speak to you immediately. Are you able to come down to Sickbay?"

_"Spock, it's really not a good time –"_

" _Now_ , Captain."

McCoy jumps slightly at the tone, which is almost thunderous in its quiet fury. Obviously Jim gets the message loud and clear, because his affirmative is almost hilarious in its rapid cluelessness.

He has no idea what Spock says to Jim, because Spock marches the captain into his office while Chapel is seeing to his own comfort, and he hopes the Vulcan went easy on the poor captain; it wasn't Kirk's fault by any stretch. Even if it was a bit foolish to leave him alone with an enemy, who knew a Vulcan could make such a rapid recovery from a nasty fractured skull? Jim may have not been paying attention, but it wasn't his fault – and in fact, if he'd been present, he would no doubt have been the victim rather than McCoy. That's a relief to him, in a way, because he wouldn't want whatever Jim and Spock have to be tarnished by a memory like that.

Just the same, he's still a bit meanly glad to see the captain scuttling into his cubicle an hour or so later, white-faced and looking like he's just been disillusioned with life as a whole. Spock spares him one last look, full of knowing and what looks to be a silent apology, before leaving them alone, and for that he's grateful; because regulations dictate he must talk about the incident to someone in order to be re-certified for duty, and he'd rather it be the captain than anyone who is less informed about the severity of the assault.

Jim is no less horrified than their First Officer had been, and adds a starship-load of guilt on top of all that, but McCoy thinks they've all learned something valuable – about themselves, and about each other – and so the mission isn't a complete waste. It takes him a while to recover, as these things do; but in the meantime, he actually feels as if Spock sees him in a new light, not just that of a slightly-irritating colleague. The least he can do is return the favor and try not to make their XO want to kill him (more than) once a week.

And while it's a little weird to have a Vulcan actually take interest in you and try to make what amounts to small talk as you walk through the corridors…it's kind of nice, though he'll obviously never admit that to a soul.

Also if for the next six months, both of his superiors are stupidly adorable in their efforts to protect him from everything from germ warfare to tripping over his own feet, well. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, his momma always said.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Spoilers: No particular spoilers, though there's a nod to the conclusion of the Blish novelization for City on the Edge of Forever.

**V.**

Truth be told, he hasn't been mistreated, not really. He's a Starfleet officer, he can stand to go without food (and sleep, but that's a problem for his captors more than him, because he gets grumpier than a bear woken from hibernation without a decent amount of sleep) for a few days. Compared to the two poor devils in the cells next to him, who had been worked over yesterday pretty well in an effort to extract information about their respective militaries before being taken he knows not where, he's in pretty decent shape. This is apparently due to his status as a healer, a position which is evidently respected by this backwater species which should've stayed safely in their puddle of primordial ooze.

Granted, his standing went down a bit the other evening when he refused to disclose any information about Starfleet's plans to settle this quadrant (as if the upper echelons of Starfleet Command tell anybody anything), but the idiots really should know better anyway. What kind of paranoid species goes around kidnapping random ‘Fleet crewmen from perfectly respectable clubs, in perfectly respectable spaceports, just to get information out of them about the outside world? Argellians are a suspicious people, obviously, having little contact with any post-warp civilization – and apparently, they are afraid the Federation is intent upon enslaving their people and taking over their worlds or some such tomfoolery.

When he gets off this wanna-be pirate ship, the whole lot of them had better reimburse him for the four nights he paid for at that swanky hotel back on Rigel VI and didn't get to stay in, thanks very much.

He'd been on shore leave alone, because Spock had taken Jim to Vulcan for two weeks of isolated recovery, after the death of both Sam Kirk and Edith Keeler in rapid succession. Oh, he'd been invited to come along on Jim's reluctant bereavement leave; but somehow he had known his presence would only be a hindrance to the captain's recovery. This is something Jim needs Spock for, and he doesn’t begrudge his friend, or his captain, that much.

He doesn't profess to understand in the least what ties bind the two of them together, and he doubts that they even understand it themselves – but that doesn't stop him from respecting the bond between them, and it prevents him from being anything more than slightly jealous of their instant rapport (as opposed to his and Spock's ongoing symbiotic conflict).

Unfortunately, all this means that he'd beamed down to Rigel VI by himself, intent upon pursuing old acquaintances who had settled in the area, and that he probably won't be missed until another week passes and he fails to re-board the _Enterprise_ at the designated time.

That might be problematic, he muses now, because no matter how stubborn his mind, his body isn't going to hold out for much longer without food or at least clean water. They had left a container of water in his cell last night while he was sleeping, but he doesn’t trust the oily film floating on top. It could easily be laced with a form of truth serum (or worse), so it’ll be a very last resort. He's a doctor, and he knows the numbers – and he also knows he still has a day or two before he has to start taking drastic and rather unpleasant measures in order to remain alive and semi-kicking.

Another day passes, crawls by at a turtle's pace, minute dragging into minute as the silence of his durasteel-walled prison isn't broken by anything other than the faint hum of engines below his feet and the occasional sound of passing crewmen tromping in the corridors. It’s coming close to driving him crazy, now. He can’t very well attempt an escape if he never even sees a guard. His captors haven't even been civilized enough to give him so much as a deck of cards to play with, and there's only so many ways he can spend his time meditating or mentally playing Sudoku before his thoughts turn a bit gloomy from the awful silence.

He listens in solitude to the hum and rattle of this bucket of bolts – nothing at all like the _Enterprise_ , and he suddenly realizes what Jim means when he says he can tell immediately he's home whenever he wakes up aboard ship – and wishes more with each passing minute that something, anything, would break up the horrible, endless drone of monotony.

Or being rescued, even exchanged for a Federation prisoner, would be good too.

It's sometime during the morning of the sixth day (he only knows this because the lights dim automatically to simulate ship's night) when he jumps awake as the ship suddenly lurches. Nerves already sharply on edge from lack of proper sleep and nutrition, he feels the rattletrap shudder of an engine malfunctioning deep below, and snarls an invective under his breath at his captors, who apparently do not believe in letting a man get a decent night's rest when he can't very well do much of anything else. He's expecting a bit of turbulence before the silence closes back in on him, thick and choking and maddening.

What he's not expecting, is for the brig doors to suddenly burst open, a shrill shower of sparks that temporarily blinds him in a pretty impressive fireworks display.

He blinks through shock-blurred eyes, jaw dropping slightly, as a tall figure in Science blues then materializes wraithlike through the haze of electrical smoke. Spock spares him not a word, eyes glinting dangerously in the dim lighting, and hefts what has to be the most enormous phaser rifle McCoy's ever laid eyes on into the air, aiming coolly at the twice-encrypted lock on his cell door.

"Stand back, Doctor," is the calm instruction, delivered in a tone no more tense than if he were reporting on ship's status on the _Enterprise_ Bridge.

"Huh," he manages eloquently, but he scoots safely out of range – and only just in time, because Spock then melts the lock off the door and manages to disintegrate about half the durasteel bars at the same time.

The durasteel turns to molten slag and then disappears completely into so many invisible molecules, leaving only the slightly scorched, acrid smell of ozone in its wake.

Spock slings the enormous rifle easily over one shoulder, and then – curiouser and curiouser, though at this point he'd actually _hug_ the hobgoblin if it'd get him home faster – steps into the small cell. McCoy releases his tenuous hold on the wall, only to have Spock scoot forward quickly and take his arm in a firm grip as his balance wobbles precariously, grey spots dancing in his vision. One quick flick of a wrist, and then Spock's talking into a communicator. McCoy expects him to request beam-out straight off, and is slightly surprised to hear him call up the captain, rather than Scotty.

"Yes, Captain," Spock drones calmly, his fingers never lightening their grip on his arm. "You may cease your interrogation of this vessel's commander. I have located Dr. McCoy."

Jim's voice is decidedly frosty. _"Mr. Spock, you have the absolute worst timing."_

A slanted eyebrow dips slightly. "Sir. I daresay Starfleet Command will take issue with our methods as it is; do you desire to further incur their displeasure?"

Interference crackles over the comm, and a slightly animalistic snarl that they both pretend they didn't hear. A moment later, Kirk's voice snaps over the channel, sharp as knives with urgency. _"Is Bones okay, Spock?"_

"The Doctor is apparently unharmed, though certainly severely malnourished and exhausted," Spock replies, eyes probing his own with an intensity that is just this side of frightening. "He also appears to be uncharacteristically silent, which is slightly more alarming, sir."

"Hey!" He hears Jim's dry chuckle as he sends a sharp elbow into Spock's rock-solid torso. "You try bein' stuck with no one to talk to but yourself for a week, and see how chatty you are afterwards!"

"Doctor, your hypotheticals are, as always, highly amusing, but we are still in danger of being overpowered before we are able to make our way back to the shuttle. Are you capable of traversing some distance?"

"Am I…wait, shuttle?" He stares up at Spock's wooden expression. "Y'all came here in a shuttle? How in tarnation did you get it docked to the side of a frigate?"

"I believe the technical term is that we…crash-landed through a cargo bay."

"What?! Why didn't you just beam over from the _Enterprise_?"

"Doctor, the _Enterprise_ is halfway across the quadrant, on its way back from an aborted rendezvous with you at Rigel VI. The captain and I, being en route back from Vulcan, were far closer to your location."

"Wait, wait just a doggone minute, Spock." His head's still spinning from the adrenaline rush and lack of food, but that rings a warning bell even to him. He grasps Spock's arms intensely, realization flooding through him. "Y'mean you forced your way onto an armed pirate frigate, just the two of you and that ridiculous over-compensatin' phaser rifle?"

Spock blinks placidly back at him. "The captain is also armed, Doctor."

"That's not what I meant!" He shakes the blue-sleeved arms emphatically. "Starfleet doesn't even know you're here, do they?"

Spock's communicator crackles again in warning. _"Spock, if you're not moving then_ get _moving, mister – we've got a problem!"_ The whine of phaser fire shatters through the channel, sharp and menacing. _"Get Bones out of there and take off if you get to the shuttle before I do. That's an order, Commander!"_

"Come, Doctor," is Spock's only response, and he finds himself being propelled with force toward the destroyed brig doors.

Unfortunately, nearly a week without proper nutrition or hydration doesn't really give him the option of _hurrying_ after a Vulcan who's apparently on a perfectly logical rampage through a strangely silent pirate ship illuminated only by emergency lighting. He makes it halfway down the corridor, eyes firmly fastened on the glint of Spock's phaser rifle, which is still bouncing lightly on the Vulcan's shoulder, and then the world tilts gently to the side, depositing him neatly on the wall to his right.

He stares at it in blank surprise, because he would have sworn he was upright a minute ago and obviously he's now looking at a blurred reflection in the shiny deck.

Blue looms over him, and strong hands haul him upright with inhuman strength. A solid grip pulls his arm over thin shoulders, yanking the strap of the phaser rifle out of the way and into Spock's free hand.

"What's with that, anyway," he mumbles, scrubbing away the tunnel vision which threatens to send him down for the count.

"Your specificity is, as always, astoundingly eloquent, Doctor."

"The giant _gun_ , Spock," he growls, not appreciating being half-hauled along like a sack of protesting potatoes. "Thought you were a peaceable folk and all that."

"I believe the Captain's exact orders were, 'I don't care if you have to torch the place inch by inch, Spock, just find him before I have to kill someone while wearing this uniform,'" is the dry reply.

Laughter bubbles up in his stomach, only adding to the nausea of not having eaten in several days. The floor underneath him lurches again, and he thinks he probably should feel more embarrassed about biting back a groan and clutching at Spock's shoulder than he actually does. Touch-telepath probably doesn’t appreciate downloading a human’s scattered brain functions at a time like this.

The rifle is adjusted quickly, and the arm that then circles his waist in support is very gentle.

He doesn't exactly remember most of the trek back to the cargo bay, though he does have a vague recollection of Spock calmly ramming the rifle setting over to stun and mowing down four Argellians who block their path and open fire on them with disruptors; and of being dragged none-too-gently through an access corridor, after which Spock slices through the juncture plating to block the path after them with a pile of laser-chiseled debris.

He does remember, very clearly, Jim bellowing across a fast-depressurizing cargo bay with all the power of his formidable Captain James Tiberius Kirk lungs, and Spock evidently throwing his oversized personal space bubble to the solar winds and just picking him up (despite an indignant squawk of protest) and half-carrying him the remaining hundred meters. The Vulcan's boot-heels have barely crossed the threshold before the shuttle door slams shut behind them, locking into place with the hiss of a pressurized magnetic seal.

Kirk is already blasting his way out of the cargo bay, swearing in Klingon at the attacking Argellians, when Spock deposits him on the small bunk at the back of the _Copernicus_ 's passenger area. The Vulcan tosses a blanket over him and then lunges to grasp hold of the bunk edge when the shuttle lurches violently.

"Buckle up and stay back there!" the captain shouts, over the sound of a blow to their hull and a minor explosion of sparks in the cockpit.

"Nothin' doin'," he grunts in irritation, and hauls himself upright. He can man a co-pilot's seat in a pinch, and definitely the navigation chair with the aid of the auto-pilot. He's not going to sit back and let Jim do all the work, not if he has anything to say about it.

Apparently, he doesn't have any say, because Spock only looks rather longsuffering and pushes him back down with so little effort it's kind of embarrassing. He's so surprised he doesn't even resist when the safety harness is buckled over him, keeping him reclined on the small bunk.

The blanket and bottle of purified water are pretty near heaven, though.

"Doctor, you are in no condition to be doing anything but resting here, until we are out of the danger zone and are able to begin medical treatment," the Vulcan says with a tone that either signifies tension, or just plain boredom.

The shuttle quivers under them, pitching starboard with the force of a blast (his water bottle goes flying across the shuttle in an impressive defiance of artificial gravity), and he hears Jim muttering under his breath, vaguely sees him busy navigating with one hand and returning fire with the other. Something explodes just to his right, and he waves away a small puff of smoke, coughing.

"Captain?"

"Let me concentrate!"

Spock's mouth snaps shut, a tight line of tension, and he perches on the edge of the bunk, buckling his own safety harness into place around him. McCoy privately thinks he looks a bit like a toddler being told he has to go to bed rather than staying up with the adults at a party, and then also privately thinks he probably should just pass out and be done with it so that he doesn't embarrass himself any further by thinking the hobgoblin's _adorable_ , for pity's sake.

He reaches over and haphazardly pats Spock's thin knee.

Spock's eyebrows inch upward.

"Remind me to buy you a drink next time we're on shore leave," he says, surprised that it sounds more like a slurred yawn than the sentiment he intended it to be. Wouldn't put it past the hobgoblin to spike the water with a sedative, all things considered.

Spock's silent sigh of tolerance is louder than the explosion that suddenly rocks the shuttle, followed by the alarming screech of something being shorn off their port bow. "Doctor, you are aware that I am incapable of becoming intoxicated by alcoholic beverages."

"Oh, right. ‘S the sugar, isn’t it. Well, remind me to buy you a slice of pie, then," he mutters, this time yawning for real, one of those bone-cracking yawns that starts in the ears and works its way down to make the toes curl up in contentment.

A tiny chuff of air, which he suspects is the Vulcan equivalent of rolling on the floor laughing. "If you wish, Doctor," is the murmured reply, and the blanket is tugged firmly down over his feet, tucked securely in around the harness.

Another thud against the side of the shuttle, and Kirk swears loudly as they finally jump to warp with an alarming series of rattling creaks.

"Captain, may I remind you that regulations state that whenever possible, two crewmen are to be at the navigation controls when piloting into warp through an asteroid belt?"

"Spock, I swear to God, nobody likes a backseat driver!"

Half-asleep by this point, he cracks an eye open to send a lazy glare Jim's way, because that was just plain rude.

"Don' worry, Spock, _I_ like you," he mumbles, eye flickering closed again.

There is no response, but that doesn't really matter, because everybody knows Spock talks more with his eyes than his words, and so he drifts along listening to the steady thrum of the shuttle's short-distance warp engine, subtly different from the _Enterprise_ and still slightly familiar. Their flight levels out, and he hears the creak of safety harnesses being undone. The muffled thump of footsteps in a cramped space. The tinny whir of a medical tricorder, near his head, different from a Science tricorder but still unmistakable.

Jim's voice, closer now. "Good grief. Okay, we're on a stable course to rendezvous with the _Enterprise_ , Spock. Ahem. And I'm sorry about all that."

"No apologies are necessary, sir."

"How is he?"

"Exhausted, Captain." A hand brushes gently against his unkempt hair – fingers not cold enough to be Spock's icicle-y appendages, it's Jim – and then tugs the blanket up over his shoulders. "But apparently physically unharmed, if my readings are accurate. I am beginning to suspect some sort of drug was introduced to his physiology, however, sir."

"I should've blasted a torpedo straight into their antimatter chamber. What makes you think that?"

A significant pause. Then, "Dr. McCoy's last words before falling asleep were to the effect that I should not mind your somewhat irritable response to my offers of assistance; because _he_ likes me."

An explosive giggle, so characteristic of the captain on the tail end of an adrenaline rush. "And here I thought you were serious, Mr. Spock."

"Always, sir."

"Well, then, my serious Vulcan friend, would you like to take that call from the Admiralty that's blinking on our dashboard?"

"I do not believe that falls within my purview as First Officer. Sir."

"No, I didn't think it did." A dismal sigh. "We've got about two hours before we're in rendezvous range of the _Enterprise_. Try to keep him comfortable while I try to explain my way out of this one, will you, Spock?"

"Aye, sir."

"Annnnd here I go," Jim's disgruntled mutter trails after his voice as footsteps retreat back to the cockpit of the shuttle.

Everything seems so very loud, coming from day after day of terrible, awful silence. He can hear Spock's slight hum of disapproval as he recalibrates the tricorder to his satisfaction, the murmur of Jim's latest excuses to Starfleet Command for what they just did, the comforting creaks and groans of the shuttle sailing safely through the stars at warp, heading for the _Enterprise_.

The next sound he hears clearly is the sound of an argument over his head, his Head Nurse telling off the captain for sleeping in a chair when he knows it always gives him a bad headache and Commander Spock for _letting_ him be such an idiot – and that's all he needs to hear, to know he's home.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers and speculation for _For the World Is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky_. Warning for discussion of a terminal illness, if that could be triggering in any way.

**IV.**

Without question, the worst part of being the Chief Medical Officer of the largest, most important, and most danger-prone starship in the 'Fleet is watching young hopefuls join the ranks with starry-eyed excitement, only to see that light fade in either disillusionment or death as the dangerous missions continue.

He'll never, ever get used to having to try – and fail – to save crewmen who are lost on landing parties that should never have gone pear-shaped in the first place, will never get over the names he has to see on the death certificates before they get signed off on by his weary signature. Will never forget the frightened faces of men and women barely old enough to pilot a shuttle on their own home planets, as he tries to make their slipping into the next life as painless and peaceful as possible, will never forget trying to comfort room-mates and significant others and in some cases family members after the death of a loved one under tragic circumstances.

Captain Kirk knows it's against regulations for a ranking officer to keep alcohol in his workplace; but Jim never says anything about his hidden stash in the Sickbay office, and for good reason.

However, there is something that ranks well up there with death and destruction aboard this blasted tin can, something he hates with every fiber of his being and heart and soul – and that's the absolutely ridiculous amount of paperwork he has to do, as ranking medical officer in Medical Sciences.

Really. Spock has the ability to sign off on two reports simultaneously, and he's Chief Science Officer; it should be _Spock's_ duty to read and review all these blasted requisitions from the young idiots aboard. Why should _he_ have to look over SS&R's paperwork to make sure there's no indication of psychological imbalance to be inferred from the daily requests made from the quartermaster? And that's only one division of at least eleven which he has to oversee and sign off on on a daily basis, which doesn't include the Medical paperwork which he must begin and complete on his own.

Spock's response to his weekly complaining is simply a raised eyebrow and an inquiry as to whether or not he feels 'incapable of performing his duties as the Chief Medical Officer of this vessel,' which only sets him off and sends his nursing staff scrambling for cover as the Vulcan leaves his office, usually a few inches in advance of the nearest object to hand capable of being thrown at a disgustingly intelligent head.

But do it he does, and quite well, he might add. Very few people could balance the amount of work he has to, both cerebral and physical, due to not having an assistant CMO like many ships their size do. Despite the amount of trouble this ship gets into, they are at their heart and on paper, an exploratory science vessel; and part of that is the unseen work which is constantly going on below decks in Medical and Sciences.

He spends a good fifteen hours a week on top of his usual forty-five in Medical just signing off on Science paperwork, and while Spock does nearly three times that (because he usually ends up doing at least half of the captain's without even telling the man he's done it), it's still a dang good accomplishment for a mere human. Christine, bless her, does all she can to lighten his load, but as a non-command-ranking officer there's only so much she can do without breaking command regulation.

Still, he gets the job done, and in the end that's all that matters.

But then, after weeks of feeling unusually rundown without a reason, he finally gets himself checked out, and finds that he's contracted xenopolycythymia.

That, is something he’d never planned on.

Despite his illness and insecurity and just flat-out _fear of dying_ , he finds a way to get the job done, even with the business of the travelling asteroid colony and his brief but rather pleasant dalliance with Natira. He's saddened to say goodbye to her, of course; but he didn't get a dual doctorate in xenobiology and psychology for nothing, and he can recognize a rebound relationship when he sees one. She's too pure, too innocent, for something like that, and while he'd have no objections to resuming their relationship at a later date he wants to make sure he treats her like she deserves, and so he says goodbye with a clear conscience and only a fond sadness in his heart.

Besides, at the rate the disease is progressing, he may have even less time than they originally thought.

He knows that Spock suspects this – and that Christine probably caved under his influence and confirmed the second diagnosis – but he hasn't told Jim that his time is even shorter, because the man is running himself ragged as it is, and coming down so hard on his subordinates that there's at least four crewmen in every day for nerves or stress relievers. It's Kirk's way of dealing with emotional pain, and everyone knows it; but if he were to tell the man just how short his time really is, then he knows he'd have to relieve the captain of full duty before he causes a mental breakdown in some of his less hardy subordinates.

As it is, Sciences has been nearly entirely turned over at Spock's command to the decoding of the Fabrini medical archives, in a last-ditch, desperate attempt to discover any information which might lead to a possible treatment course for xenopolycythymia. He's far too realistic to even contemplate hoping for a cure; but a treatment which might grant him some more time, possibly even years, would be very welcome news right about now.

He's exhausted constantly, and his blood pressure seems to pick the worst possible times to fluctuate wildly, including one very embarrassing scene on the Bridge when he fainted right in front of the whole alpha shift crew, who haven't even been told what's going on with him. It's all part and parcel of the disease, as his white blood cell count slowly withers and dies, and his red cell count a little less slowly begins to decline in production – but the medical knowledge of what his body is doing doesn't make _dealing_ with it any easier, and it certainly doesn't help him sleep at night.

He heard a man say once that if you aren't afraid to die, then you haven't had a life worth living; now he knows what that means.

He's scared out of his mind, and just as scared to show it to anyone.

* * *

Eventually, two weeks after they've left the Fabrini asteroid and continued on their charted mission (Starfleet has no idea that every Scientific department other than astrophysics and stellar cartography is _otherwise engaged_ in the Fabrini archives project), he realizes that he's not going to be able to continue like this. It's all he can do to get in his eight hours a day, and that's with an impromptu nap against his will, usually drooling on his desk in the afternoon. There's been luckily no major surgery or other medical emergency which has required his full attention, and he thanks God for it, because it would probably tip him over the side of medically unfit for duty – and the last thing he wants now is to be relieved of the only thing he still can do and feel like he's accomplishing something with his life.

He starts cutting back his active duty hours, which technically still doesn't disqualify him from full active duty since he usually works a good fifteen to twenty hours past what is required of a full-duty officer. But the cut in time is noticeable in the amount of work he's able to get done, and there does come a day, some sixteen days after they leave the Fabrini, that he has to face his direct superior and admit his inability to perform to his previous standard.

He's expecting Spock to look at him with pity, or even come back with some ill-thought-out quip about it only being expected, given the circumstances beyond his control and blah blah blah. Spock tries once in a while to respond like a human would; and always with disastrous consequences due to the fact that Vulcans apparently don't have a grasp on human tact. It's only logical to state bald facts, after all, and their XO doesn't quite grasp why something which is Truth could possibly hurt or offend.

But Spock sits unblinking across the desk from him in a cabin too blasted hot for human tolerance levels (it only feels good to him now that his blood pressure's dropped through the floor on a regular basis), hands folded motionless before him next to a data-padd, and lets him ramble it out, from his inability to perform to his action plan for making certain the slack is picked up elsewhere in Sciences.

He trails off finally, finishing with an embarrassed mutter about departmental scale-backs, and rocks back on his heels with a sigh, waiting for whatever Spock is going to say about expected performance levels and his "condition."

But instead, Spock only blinks placidly at him for a moment, and then gives him a curt nod of approval. "That is a reasonable plan, Doctor," he says quietly, and without any sort of implication hidden therein. "Please inform me if you require further assistance from me in any of these matters."

He raises an eyebrow, surprised and very grateful that Spock's not about to draw further attention to his inability to fully do his job. "Thank you, Mr. Spock," he says, and means it.

"Dismissed, Doctor." Spock's tone is kind, perhaps a bit too much so, but it's been far less stressful a confrontation than he was anticipating, and so he turns to go with a silent sigh of gratitude.

The room wavers for a minute in front of him as another dizzy spell hits (less time between them all day today, he needs to chart that and let Chapel know so she can begin new evaluations), and he fumbles for the back of the chair he never sat in upon entering.

He hears the faint scramble of feet on durasteel flooring as he nearly falls on his face, but he manages to jerk upright with an effort and hold up a restraining hand before Spock makes it around the desk.

The Commander stops immediately, face drawn and paler than even he normally is, but remains silent as McCoy leaves with eyes cast downward in embarrassment.

It's only later, as he's dozing in his office between filing reports, that he realizes the computer screen and the dozen data-padds surrounding Spock's desk in his quarters had all been blinking with decryption programs, filtering through another of the Fabrini archives. He rubs his eyes and pulls up Spock's cabin's bio-monitor, to see if his sudden suspicion is correct.

It is. The computer has not registered a sleep cycle for the First Officer in over two weeks.

Strangely enough, it's that knowledge rather than the experimental drug Christine gives him that helps him get through another painful day.

* * *

After another three days, his counts are so low across the board that both he and his head nurse agree that he needs to begin a regimen of experimental treatments similar to those which are used to treat the now-rare disease of leukemia. Perhaps it will help his white blood cell count, if nothing else, they reason; and at this point he can hardly afford to not try every avenue open to him.

Lucky for them, they have the resources of a constitution-class starship available to them, and the discretion to use them wisely. Starfleet Command has still not been notified of the situation, and if they ever find out that Kirk has hidden the information for so long then they're in for a world of trouble; but the captain stubbornly believes that a cure will be found in the Fabrini archives, and he refuses to give up hope just yet that there won't be a miracle discovered in the next month or so.

McCoy has always been more inclined toward common-sense, and he has enough to know that miracles don't just happen, not without some sort of superhuman intervention. And while Commander Spock may like to think he's superhuman, he's still at best only half-non-human. But until he is officially relieved of duty, he’s human enough to be glad of not having to explain the situation in an official report, and so he’s letting it slide for now simply out of exhaustion more than anything else.

The chemical and radiation treatments are harsh, even brutal, to his already weakened systems, and he lives that first forty-eight hours in so much pain he can't even sleep to escape it. Chapel monitors him, white-faced and worried, and Spock quietly assumes his Science responsibilities without even being asked.

Jim, who only finds out how advanced the xenopolycythymia really is when he discovers McCoy is trying an emergency radiation treatment targeting the hostile cells which are draining his very life away…well. The captain completely. Freaks. _Out_.

He's pretty much out for the count by this point, but he hears the stunned voices escalating in the outer ward as his beta-shift nursing staff is forced to deal with a shell-shocked Captain James Tiberius Kirk firing on all thrusters. He can only hope sadly that someone takes care of the poor fool when he's gone, because they all know Kirk is a magnet for trouble and it's always been him who patches the idiot back up again…

* * *

It's been eight weeks when Spock finally finds it, what Science Lab Seven believes to be a radically advanced cure for cancer of the blood, and which Spock is certain his people can then modify to become a successful treatment for xenopolycythymia.

Under ordinary circumstances, Spock and he would be biffling over a new pet project, one that's sure to make their names famous in medico-scientific circles. Even they usually put aside their differences in order to fully grasp and put together important scientific experiments, and this would be one he'd love to have a hand in – because finding a cure for an incurable disease is every doctor's dream.

But Spock has to go this one alone, because at this point the progression of the disease has not been halted by the usual methods, and he's so sick from the treatments that he's been removed from duty by the captain's orders rather than his own. He's in pain, so much pain, and on top of it all he can't even sleep properly no matter what method they try.

He's just flat exhausted, mentally and emotionally and physically, and he knows better than anyone else aboard how dangerous that combination can be to a mind which ordinarily would never break under even high pressure.

Christine's done all she can to make him comfortable for another night (he's not slept in his own cabin for over a week, because he has to be under observation now), and he is left all alone, staring wearily into the gloom, the faint lights dim in the corner of the room. Left faintly lit because no dying man wants to be left alone in complete darkness, because even he doesn't want to only have the beep of a slowing heart monitor for company.

He's not even close to drifting off when the door of his room opens with a soft hiss, and then closes behind the intruder with an equally quiet noise that sounds enormous in the stillness.

Jim looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and he hates the fact that he's responsible for the captain's emotional stress. Nothing he can do about it, and it's nice to be loved – but he still hates to see Kirk – and Spock, too, there's no mistaking the weary exhaustion coloring those pale features now – beating themselves up over something that just can't be changed, no matter what they hope and pray.

He's expecting the captain to pull up a chair and talk for a little while, because Jim comes to see him at least once a day and he never showed up today; maybe he'll read a book aloud or something else equally odd but endearing. He's slightly puzzled to see that the man's not in regulation uniform, but in soft sweatpants and a horrible monstrosity of knitted sweater – a gift from his grandmother on Earth, he's assuming, because surely Jim has better fashion sense than _that_.

Whatever he was anticipating, however, it was very definitely not to suddenly find himself with a bedmate.

Jim only grins half-heartedly at his sputtered swearing, and tucks himself on _top_ of the Sickbay covers, then pulls the remaining thermal blanket over himself.

"There, now no one can start rumors about us, so you can relax, Bones," the man says with a smile, though it falls short of his eyes and has none of the usual mischief.

"What in the name of all that's sensible are you –"

"Look, just…" the captain's voice trails off into the darkness, painful and choked. "Bones. I need this." The admission is too open, to raw and honest, to ever come from that most stubbornly proud of men, and it breaks his heart. "Spock thinks he's close to a breakthrough tonight, but…please."

He sighs, because he's taken a vow to do no harm, and that by inference means to alleviate it whenever he can. Also, he’s just too tired to do anything else. "Okay," he says gruffly, but scrunches himself as small as he can because this is just _weird_. "But don't blame me if you roll off during the night. Bio-beds aren't made for sharin'."

Jim's huff is half-laughter, half what sounds suspiciously like a sob, and the silence that falls after is almost painful in its awkwardness. He dozes listlessly for an hour, then two (he's gotten pretty good at blindly judging time, since he's spent so much of it lying around the last few weeks), then three.

Sometime during that second hour, Kirk falls asleep.

Sometime during the third, the captain unconsciously squirms closer, restlessly seeking out the warmth of the lump which is an unmoving, and unamused, Leonard McCoy.

Sometime during the fourth hour, he finally feels himself relax slightly, as his blood pressure suddenly decides to even out and stop making him feel sick and dizzy. The relief, however temporary, puts him in a much better frame of mind, and he turns on his side with a sigh, ignoring the fact that his pain-in-the-neck of a captain takes the opportunity to appropriate a portion of his pillow, obviously uneasy and in the middle of a bad dream.

Sometime during the fifth hour, Jim's dreams turn into full-fledged nightmares, that much is obvious. It's not in his nature to let someone suffer without trying to help, and so it's entirely medical concern that lifts his hand to awkwardly pat the man's shoulder as he twitches, face twisting in silent pain.

Sometime during the sixth hour, the captain falls into a deeper sleep, the sleep of the exhausted, calm and serene and unaware that he's now stolen most of McCoy's pillow.

Sometime during the seventh hour, he jolts awake from an uneasy doze to the sound of hurried footsteps outside his cubicle. There’s a slightly exasperated sound, then the rapid disengaging of a command override, and a slightly disheveled figure barrels through it, silhouetted tall and thin and tense against the light of the ward beyond.

"I believe we have it," Spock blurts out, and there's actually _hurry_ and _relief_ and _excitement_ slipping through that barely-held façade.

It isn't that, really, but the fact that Jim chooses that moment to flail awake and promptly falls off the side of the bed with a startled yelp, that makes him laugh for the first time in over two months.

And it feels _wonderful_.


	4. Chapter Four

**III**.

He really, really should have known better, should have been able after all this time to tell that something was very wrong.

Four years of skirting the edge of death in this exploratory mission has given him an almost sixth sense for the safety of his foolhardy superiors, especially that of his idiot captain. James T. Kirk will, he suspects, soon get new rules and procedures put in the books specifically prohibiting the captain of a starship to beam down to any landing party or planet before a Security detail has had time to reconnoiter the scene. The captain loves his job, and loves each mission they undertake, and that love of being intricately involved gives his Security Chief and ASC absolute fits over the apparent disregard for his own safety. It's an ongoing battle between Command and Security, and while the premise is rather amusing it's not at all amusing when something goes wrong and the captain is put in serious danger.

In McCoy's defense, though he will never forgive himself the error of observation, it is complete and total chaos. Beaming down into a peaceful diplomatic mission is nothing new to them; and even one such mission suddenly going haywire is nothing new to them either, let's be honest.

The mission going haywire by means of the capital city suddenly being overrun by natives who are totally unaware of Starfleet's presence, and are staging a coup on the merest _coincidence_ to their secretive treaty negotiations, is something slightly off the beaten track.

Unfortunately, such an uprising is as deadly to innocents in the crossfire as it is to the natives involved.

Starfleet should have better informed them as to the political state of unrest, that much is certain; they had received no information regarding any instability in the planet's monarchy, and in fact had been led to believe that the Elphasians were a most peaceable people, intent only upon exploring the universe with the collaborating aid of the Federation's alliance. That there were several rather powerful rebel factions within the capital itself, who had made clear threats against the monarchy in recent weeks, had conveniently not been part of their official briefings, and McCoy suspects that the captain will have more than a few words to say on the subject once they get back to the ship.

 _If_ they get back to the ship, because the insurgents have erected a force-field around the city so powerful that it makes for a complete communications and signal blackout. If they are to even notify the ship that there is a problem, they must make it beyond that barrier several kilometers away, and he for one isn't as young and spry as he used to be.

Their two Security personnel, the only armed members of the peaceable landing party as per regulation, have already given their lives in the performance of their duties; one killed immediately by just being too close to the site of the first hidden bomb in the council chambers, and the other by barely making it to her captain in time to block the worst of the explosion with her own body.

Kirk's horrified look as McCoy pronounced the ensign dead will stick with him for a long time, he reflects with a grief-stricken sigh. They had all been taken by surprise by the bomb threat and rapid detonations, and in the ensuing chaos it had taken both his and Spock's efforts to drag their protesting captain out the closest exit and down a deserted corridor just minutes before the flood of rebels swarmed the palace, simply mowing down all resistance without mercy.

The three of them had taken refuge in a deserted council chamber, hidden behind several colorful tapestries, and Spock had shoved a communicator into his hands and ordered him to attempt to contact the ship. It had taken him a good few minutes before he finally gave up, after trying every channel without success, and he was forced to make a report of failure to his superiors, who were both pressed up against the wall, heads close together and talking in low, tense voices.

He should have seen it, even then, but he didn't, and he's kicking himself for it now.

They run like the devil after that, realizing that they are dead men if they don't make it past the force-field surrounding the capital city. Neither he nor Spock dare to voice their observations, of how Jim obviously learned in his Tarsus days to slip through such an uproar without being noticed. No, they only follow obediently as he makes his way by bluff and sneakiness and reluctant violence and sometimes sheer force of will through the streets teeming with rioting looters, screaming citizens, panicking police forces, and more than once a team of insurgents who are gleefully opening fire on innocents whenever it strikes their fancy. They are completely unable to steal a vehicle, because their uniforms are a dead giveaway that they do not belong here – and therefore they are by default an enemy. They'll never get close to anything that will aid their escape, and so it has to be done the hard way – on foot.

Three times they have such a close call that it will haunt his nightmares for months, each time escaping he knows not how; but finally they reach the outskirts of the capital city. The green fields beyond shimmer oddly as he looks that direction, wavering as if distorted behind some kind of cloaking device, and he realizes it must be the power of the distant force-field, which has placed the capital city under an effective and total blackout.

"I estimate another two kilometers at least, before the force field is thin enough for possible transmissions, though we may be forced to reach an area beyond its power to raise the ship," Spock says, to no one in particular, and McCoy spares a moment to wonder how the dickens he figures that without a tricorder and triangulations.

The captain only nods breathlessly, plowing ahead with all the force of a freight shuttle through the quieter streets. They all try to ignore the sounds of terrified screaming behind them, the cacophony of bombs exploding back in the financial and political districts, the occasional hovercraft which roars overhead at a dangerous speed, fleeing from the destruction and chaos. The air is hot and heavy around them, full of chemicals and the pollution typical of a pre-warp civilization, and their lungs aren't accustomed to breathing through that toxic mixture.

Weirdly enough, it's Spock that finally calls a halt to their frenetic pace, citing the higher gravity of the planet as need for McCoy and the captain to rest. True, it is a little higher, but not enough to be noticeable, and he thinks it's a little strange that Spock leans back against the side of the deserted warehouse wall and closes his eyes in rest as well. He guesses even Vulcans aren't indestructible, or able to continue indefinitely while breathing heavily in a polluted atmosphere.

Medical instincts or not, the danger is still very real, and he doesn't let them linger. Finally he takes it upon himself to shake Jim back into alertness, as the man shows no signs of reanimation fifteen minutes later. Kirk is breathing heavily even after the break, pale and tense, but lurches back to his feet without a word and begins moving once more, this time letting Spock take the lead as they make it past the suburbs and onto less-traveled country roads.

Over an hour later, they stagger through a fiery prickle of energy which must be the limits of the force-field, and thereby the cessation of the communications blackout. With a crow of triumph McCoy's flipped open the communicator, and is signaling the _Enterprise_ 's transporter operator to get them off this hell-hole without further delay if he wants to survive his next physical.

He's just managed to get through a very scratchy channel to Scotty, who reports he will have to recalibrate the transporter's ionic buffers to filter out the interference from the force-field, lest he leave part of their patterns lingering in the pattern buffers too long. McCoy is all for this, as his worst nightmare is to be left in scattered atoms in some degraded transporter beam somewhere.

"No hurry. Take your time, Scotty," he drawls, and hears the relieved chuckle filter back through the channel.

"Belay that, Mr. Scott." Spock appears outwardly calm as he leans over to speak into the communicator, but now that McCoy looks closely he can see lines of tension around the dark eyes. "Alacrity would be preferable. Our position is tenuous at best, certainly a Code Gold at worst."

"Aye, sir." Scotty's too well-trained to even bother saying anything else to the First Officer – especially _this_ First Officer, when he's calling a Code Gold on the captain's safety – and they know he's going to be working another miracle to get them back in record time. “Understood, Commander.”

"Spock, are y'all right?"

"I am undamaged, Doctor."

Riiiight. And McCoy's the Federation Vice-President. "That's _not_ what I asked."

He is totally ignored, which rings a small alarm bell in the back of his mind. Spock settles rather heavily on the ground, the uncoordinated movement weirdly incongruous with his usual graceful posture. It's only at this point, that he realizes he hasn't heard from Jim in a while, and he glances over to see that the captain has already assumed a half-lotus position on the grassy turf, staring pale and somewhat glassy-eyed at nothing in particular somewhere in the near distance, one arm trailing almost forgotten on the ground.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles, hackles starting to rise in suspicion. "What're you not telling me?" he demands, wishing not for the first time that he'd brought a medical tricorder along (or that his commanding officers weren't first-class idiots).

"Nothing, Doctor."

"Nothing, Bones."

They speak at the same time, weirdly in sync even for them, and he stares suspiciously between them for a minute. But he only gets two innocent, reassuring looks in return, and if they aren't going to tell him what's going on in those strangely connected brains then he isn't going to waste his time pushing for it.

"Fine." He flops down with a huff some feet away, because he might as well wait in comfort for Scotty to work his magic. He begins to fiddle with a large yellow wildflower that pokes up between his boots, absently wondering at its physiology that lets it grow with such a lightweight, fragile root system on a high-gravity planet.

Then suddenly he hears a low, choked noise from behind him, so quiet he might've missed it if it hadn't been so deathly silent all around them. He twists quickly around, to see Jim now lying flat on his back with one arm flopped carelessly over his chest, breathing heavily and blinking up at his First Officer. Spock is bending over him with a look of clear pain and indecision on his features, as if an internal struggle is being waged in his physiology and his mind simultaneously.

"Break it, Spock," Kirk manages through a clenched jaw. "You can't keep this up without damaging yourself, and I will need you to take command once we beam up."

"Captain, I –"

"That's an _order_ , Commander," the captain whispers with decisive force, even as his free hand clenches convulsively in the grass, uprooting fragile stems and blooms. "Break it. _Now_."

By this time much alarmed, McCoy's already on his feet and moving by the time Spock bows his head in submission. A moment later the silence is torn by a muffled cry of pain from the man on the ground, and Kirk convulsively rolls onto his side with a stifled gasp, curling up in an instinctive gesture that screams all kind of alarm bells in his medical mind.

"What did you _do_ ," he snarls, shoving Spock roughly out of the way to bend over his patient.

He's shocked to see Spock wince, and reach up with both hands to rub feebly at his temples. "Doctor, I have been endeavoring to –"

"Never mind, just sit back there and take it easy. You look like you're gonna be sick.” Indeed, Spock looks very green, even for him, and sits back with his head bowed low, not voicing even a word of protest.

"I'm okay, Bones," Kirk bites out, as McCoy’s searching hands freeze in horror over what feels like at least two broken ribs, one straining against a lung if he's any judge by touch alone. This heavy air is now working its damage through the captain's airways, as his breathing hitches and shudders; obviously he knows the danger, and is trying desperately not to cough. "Spock was blocking the worst of the pain –"

"He wasn't doing anything to block your lungs from being punctured!" he nearly yells, wishing futilely that he had something to throw in his frustration.

Next time they beam down to anything, no matter how peaceable it's going to be, he is bringing a full-fledged medikit complete with epinephrine and tri-ox compound, because this is the last time he watches one of his friends nearly die on his watch due to the idiocy of Starfleet regulations.

His gut clenches sickeningly when he pulls back and sees blood on his hands, the spreading stain disguised and absorbed up to now by Kirk's black undershirt. Obviously, poor Ensign Ling hadn't been able to fully protect her captain from injury when the bomb detonated just meters away from them. He curses his own unsteadiness immediately following the explosion, because by the time he got his head back together Jim and Spock were already up and going, and he'd lost the chance then to see the immediate damage.

He starts to pull up the captain's tunic to examine what must be a shrapnel wound, when the hairs on his arms begin to stand on end; a clear sign of a transporter lock. He barely has time to register that Jim suddenly convulses silently under his hands, fighting for breath as the transporter beam begins; and this is why he never beams up a patient unless they're medically stable, the resulting shock can be disastrous when they re-materialize!

"Get a medical team in here, _now_ ," he snarls immediately, before they've even finished fully materializing, and a wide-eyed Scotty scrambles to obey. "Shock, internal bleeding, pre-op triage and oxygen kit – and tell Chapel I need 'em _yesterday_! And tell her nobody touch _him_ until he says so, he’s on telepathic overload."

Spock sits hard on his backside with a thump, clearly still disoriented, and no wonder; from what little McCoy knows about mind-melds, taking on another individual's pain and deadening the proper nerve responses in the other person to the point they can function normally has to be intensely draining, not to mention just flat painful. Spock's going to have a whopper of a migraine in a few minutes, but he'll be all right with a bit of healing trance and some boosters to increase his blood production and nerve response.

Jim, on the other hand…

The captain's now struggling to breathe, hands clenching feebly on nothing as he fails to get enough air after the transport, and this is why they don’t transport medically unstable patients, because there’s no telling what minute issues happened inside upon re-materialization. He mentally sends up a prayer of gratitude that seven miles of trekking through violent cityscape hasn't already killed the captain, because it's due to Spock and nothing else that the pain didn't drop him before they'd even cleared the palace – and due to the _Almighty_ and no one else that the rough travel didn't cause a punctured lung.

The door opens to admit a medical team rushing in with an anti-grav gurney and a shock unit, and the next few hours are a flurry of medical orders, overrides, procedures, and rapid treatments. The captain is rushed into surgery to repair the damage, and while in there is discovered to have a fractured collarbone and torn ligaments around his ribs and shoulder. The damage is healed well enough thanks to modern technology, though Kirk will be on light duty for the next week as a precaution.

Finally, Kirk is sedated and resting comfortably in his own recovery cubicle. McCoy sighs wearily, privately reiterating that he's getting way too old for this, and emerges from the cubicle, stripping his scrubs and gloves and chucking them in a recycling chute as he does.

He then halts immediately, hands on hips, when he sees that their idiot of a First Officer is still sitting silently in the outer ward, his minor scrapes and contusions obviously having been healed but still nursing a clan-matriarch-of-all-headaches, by the look of him.

"Jim's gonna be just fine, so if you’ve updated everyone who needs updated about the situation then get your skinny backside into your own bed before I decide to strap you in," he snaps without preamble, without mercy, without patience for the Vulcan's stubbornness. It's been a long, very long twelve hours, and he's just _not in the mood_. "I'll put you out for eight hours so your brain can settle back in, how does that sound."

"Doctor, I assure you, I am perfectly capable of meditating in my quarters to relieve any residual discomfort from my temporary mental fusion with the captain."

"Spock…" he sighs, because dealing with two self-sacrificing idiots in one day is so not in his job description. "Look, Commander, there's no logic in letting yourself _hurt_ just because you don't like my Sickbay, now is there?"

Spock raises an eyebrow, and sends him a thinly-disguised scowl through a twitch of lips.

"Come on," he says, more gently, and gives the reluctant Vulcan a gentle push toward his own recovery cubicle.

Spock settles in with only a token protest, proof positive of how drained he really is. McCoy fusses for a minute with the biobed settings, finally ending by administering a hypospray of the only experimental painkiller he's found that doesn't react poorly with Spock's hybrid physiology.

The only side effect of the drug is that it makes Spock a little loopy, which is why he hates it so much, but hey, you can't have it all, and he's always of the opinion that _high_ on painkillers is preferable to _vomiting_ on painkillers.

Spock closes his eyes without a word (obviously not trusting his own altered mental state due to the drug) and proceeds to totally ignore his presence for the next ten minutes. Finally, when everything is settled to his satisfaction, he goes to leave – but pauses in the doorway, looking back with fond resignation at the bed.

"Thanks for what you did, Spock," he says quietly, and he would swear the Vulcan's pointed ears prick up like a cat's. "But you ever try to hide something like that from me again, and I'll hypo you with so much of the Andorian shingles vaccine you'll never be able to have mini-hobgoblins, understand?"

"Your highly emotional reaction only gives credence to the captain's insistence that you not be apprised of the situation, Doctor. I believe his words were 'Bones'll totally flip his lid, Spock, and you know how that goes,'" the Vulcan intoned, without opening his eyes.

"Stupid self-sacrificing fools, the both of you," he growls, though there's no real anger in the tone. Spock doesn't even bother to raise an eyebrow at him, and he only rolls his eyes, dimming the lights as he leaves.

After all, he supposes there can be worse things than trying to be protected from worrying by the two biggest idiots Fate ever brought together.

And there are definitely worse things than being a strange but very necessary part in their unusual triune.


	5. Chapter Five

**II.**

It should be hilarious, it really should, for the dramatic irony if nothing else; his life reads like a ridiculous holovid show, a comic opera set in space and time. Spock, if he were in his right mind – right memory, whatever – would probably be dying laughing on the inside, he thinks sourly, and resolves to enlighten the pointy-eared know-it-all when he returns to them fully.

 _If_ he returns to them fully.

The realistic thought is only logical; and while he does not appreciate the lingering sense of Spock's rational thought processes it is a little nice to have the clarity he does about the matter, unfettered by the rampant emotional hurt that is still, even after three months, swamping Jim Kirk under its terrible power. Jim gave up everything on a gamble, for stakes so high that if he lost then his entire life crumbled around him – but for weeks after Spock's death, the admiral walked the life of a man who doesn't believe he even has a life left. So really, McCoy muses, what is the difference?

It hasn't been easy for any of them, but he doesn't want to minimize Jim's heartbreak, certainly. He'd never seen such pain on a man's face as he did while holding the admiral back from recklessly flooding the entire Engineering section with enough radiation to kill them all – and it haunts him still, even now that he's had other, more interesting, things to think about. Jim fell apart on that sad voyage home, after burying Spock among the stars, and was so busy grieving that he never noticed his poor old sawbones literally going nuts because a Vulcan decided to up and dump his _katra_ into the only head nearby that had ever been mentally compatible.

It's a bizarre, almost disturbing reversal of what happened in that mirror universe so very long ago, though he well knows the differences in the procedure now. He also knows he did not imagine that heartbroken apology that filtered through his unconsciousness mere instants before he was swamped in someone else's distorted memories. Spock would never have willingly violated him, and he recognizes both the emergency and the honor, that such a logical Vulcan would choose his illogical head since Jim's more compatible one just wasn't available.

He still isn't appreciative of becoming a dumping ground for Spock's entire life in a nutshell, but the poor devil did willingly give up his life to save the ship as well as his crewmates and cadets, and so McCoy really can't find it in himself to be truly, deep down, angry with him.

Much.

Besides, if his temporary madness would help to bring Spock back to them, even in part…well, Jim wasn't the only one who spent a good week back then grieving the soul-rending loss of a dear friend, though McCoy will never, ever, ever admit that to a single person.

But now, they've gone through the procedure, what the Vulcans call a _fal-tor-pan_ , a triune re-fusion of soul and mind and body. He's rather proud of the fact that he didn't freak out when the fusion was done, even if it was absolutely terrifying having the entire Vulcan collective rummaging around in his head trying to scrounge up bits and pieces of Spock, of all people. _Bet they regretted having to bulldoze through that illogical mess up there_ , he thinks with wicked glee – and then realizes that possibly he should rethink his career, if he can talk to himself about such things with perfect equanimity.

Either that or he's still half off his rocker, due to a Vulcan deciding to cache his _katra_ inside his skull without so much as a by-your-leave.

If he is, then he's gonna go find Spock, wherever he is in this blasted logical desert, and have _words_ with him. Very long, very intelligent-sounding-because-he-still-has-much-of-Spock's-built-in-dictionary-in-his-head, very angry words. And see how that goes over with those stodgy Vulcan healers who keep hovering nervously around, waiting like a bunch of vultures over an almost-dead possum to see if they missed anything during the re-fusion.

Jim says one evening, when the admiral is not quite as morose as usual, that McCoy should be honored to be the only human in history who has participated in a _fal-tor-pan_ , much less completed the process successfully; but he really doesn't feel all that excited about the idea of having Vulcan fangirls, and he dead sure doesn't care about being recognized publicly, especially not now that they're all wanted men on Terra.

Besides, Jim has always been a sucker for Vulcans, and McCoy has never really liked them. Why couldn't Spock have dumped his _katra_ into Jim's head! Things would have been a heck of a lot easier on them all. He still can't quite believe what has happened in so short a span of time; or the fact that they're all going to probably lose their commissions while Spock goes on, hailed as a scientific and medical miracle when he returns.

 _If_ he returns.

The _if_ is still there, and only grows with each day that passes. Spock remembered Jim's name before all else, and McCoy feels like the Vulcan recognized him instantly due to residual katric transfer – but more than that, Spock does not know, and is not rapidly learning anything human due to being surrounded always by well-meaning but fully Vulcan mentors.

It's a total shock to him, therefore, when Spock comes aboard the Klingon Bird of Prey, looking stupidly endearing in his oversized Vulcan meditation robe and making some entirely serious comment about misplacing his uniform.

Jim's lips twitch, as if he's forgotten how to laugh in the last few months due to a complete lack of practice. He lets Spock back aboard, despite McCoy's misgivings (only half-hearted, but still, only half of a Vulcan brain can pilot them straight into the nearest supernova), and they set off to return to Earth and their court-martial.

Ambassador Sarek, whose advice had been to ignore the 'Fleet summonses and simply live indefinitely in sanctuary on Vulcan, has already gone ahead of them in an attempt to test the waters of public opinion regarding their upcoming court-martials. McCoy doubts the old Vulcan has as much sway as he would like in the Federation council, but more miracles have happened to them with less assistance so he's not going to voice an opinion about it until they get there and see the results.

They don't get there. At least, not for a while. A planned, calculated, idiotic trip back in time to San Francisco during the 1980s is an interesting experience, and one that he can entirely live without ever doing again. He's getting too old to be breaking into medical facilities and rescuing crewmen, too old to be watching his captain – his admiral – perform the impossible by the skin of his teeth time and time again.

They're all getting too old for this, he realizes with a sigh, and for the first time he realizes why their command team had been disbanded yet again a few years before Spock's death, why they had all been grounded for an initial term of two years to teach at Starfleet Academy. Jim had been highly offended at the time, but even just this last birthday had sadly remarked on how old they were getting.

McCoy knows it better than he or Spock ever could, because he's nearly two decades older than Jim, and nobody can really tell with Spock. He's getting _old_ , and it isn't a pleasant thought.

Add to this, the times that Jim does something like crashing a ship into the San Francisco Bay during the middle of the worst storm in Terran history, and ordering them all to abandon ship while he gets below to release the humpback whales that will either be their salvation or their doom.

So he finds himself climbing out a small porthole on Uhura's heels (he's too glad to be getting out of there to be offended by Spock's adaptation of the 'women and children first' rule), onto the wing of a sinking Klingon warship, already half-submerged in frigid salt water. They all make it out with plenty of time to spare, and it's a small miracle of Klingon engineering that the ship isn't sinking faster than it is. He makes a mental note, that they all will no doubt require treatment for hypothermia, especially Spock; but right now they have bigger problems to worry about.

As in, no whales.

And no Jim.

Spock looks at him, dark eyes seeking his – what a bizarre switch – for guidance, as he has so many times in the last few weeks. As _katra_ -keeper, he supposes it's logical for Spock to gravitate toward him for reassurance; and while he knows their newfound closeness galls poor Jim to no end, there's not really much he can do about it. Spock and Jim have their own issues to work through, and work through them they will, in their own time. (It's just bad luck that time is something they haven't had much of, lately.)

But now, he has nothing to tell Spock that will be helpful either logically or emotionally, and so he only shakes his head and goes back to shivering, huddled up against Uhura on the wing of the Bird of Prey.

Finally, after what seems like hours, a dark head breaks above the choppy surf, and he rolls his eyes and snatches Spock's sleeve as the idiot leans too far forward in his sudden efforts to pull Kirk from the ocean. The admiral coughs out a mouthful of water, glances over the drenched group to make sure his crew is safe, and then decides climbing up is not worth the effort and simply floats limply in the water, clinging in exhaustion to Spock's free hand.

Idiot. If he wasn't so cold himself he'd say as much, because any fool knows better than to remain in frigid water longer than necessary. But he's momentarily distracted by the appearance of George and Gracie, and – he still doesn't quite believe in miracles, but this probably does qualify as one – the retreat of the probe. The eerie sounds cease, the ocean begins to calm, the clouds roll back as quickly as they must have sprung up –

And there is the California sunshine, golden and beautiful and warm.

He protests only for a second when the slightly hysterical crew around him start jumping back into the water, screaming with glee – blasted fools, the bunch of them – but as the ship is nearly sunk into the Bay and he can hear the drone of a Federation shuttle approaching, he might as well not be a party pooper, and so he joins the young idiots in splashing about amid the warmth of the sunshine. It won't be enough to stave off hypothermia, but it will be a pleasant memory to have, one of the last few he probably will have of these people, since they're all due to most likely be demoted or decommissioned tomorrow.

He treads water for a moment, smiling at Dr. Taylor, who is closest to him, and then turns around when Chekov starts giggling behind him – just in time to see Jim manage to pry Spock's frantically clenched hands off the Bird of Prey's access ladder, flinging them both into the water with a burst of relief-filled laughter (and an undignified yelp of protest from a very not-fond-of-water Vulcan, though he won't be so unkind as to mention the very human reaction until both of the absolute _children_ can be embarrassed by it).

Thankfully they're picked up a few minutes later by a 'Fleet shuttle, and then it's a whirl of news reporters and official debriefings and barely time for a hot shower and basic medical checkup before he's stashed in a Starfleet observation suite in Federation Headquarters, and basically instructed that it would be 'beneficial' to him to not wander off before the tribunal tomorrow.

What he's going to do, after they dishonorably discharge the former _Enterprise_ command crew for the eight counts against them, is anyone's guess. He won't have a retirement fund now that they're discharging him, and while he knows his name alone will gain him employment anywhere as a darn good doctor, starting over as a civilian, at his age, is not an attractive prospect. And while he's been made several rather lucrative offers by the more liberal-minded of the Vulcan scientific cliques who want him for research into the katric rituals, that's not really his cup of tea either.

Regardless, he made his choice, and even if he hadn't been stuck with Spock's soul in his head, if Jim had asked him to go he would have gone, just like he always has for that one very unusual man.

Doesn't stop him from being slightly resentful, though, that he didn't really get an option thanks to Spock's little mind trick.

He wanders out of his bedroom, wrapped in a huge fleece blanket despite the several layers of warm clothing – he can't shake off a lingering chill from the frigid ocean – to see Spock, now clothed in normal Vulcan attire, and his father, Ambassador Sarek, standing across the shared living space talking to Jim. Kirk hasn't bothered to put on his admiral's uniform, but rather is attired much the same as McCoy, in warm pajamas and a robe and slippers. He looks younger and yet older, at the same time; grief and stress and age will do that to a man. Long gone is the blithe, happy crew of the five-year-mission _Enterprise_ , including her command team. They're all growing old now, and while they have much left to give…perhaps, it is time to let the young ones have their day.

"Anything you can do would be much appreciated, Ambassador," Kirk is saying, his face drawn and inestimably weary. "Especially for Bones. I hate the idea of him losing his pension and all his other benefits so close to optional retirement age, just because he was willing to follow me against Starfleet's orders. I'll do anything necessary, plead guilty to all the counts for all of us, if it will help get him and the rest of the crew off the hook, Ambassador."

"Also, in Dr. McCoy's case, he was not even given the choice, Father," Spock interjects solemnly. "He did not request this series of events, nor did he have the option to decline, if he wished to maintain his sanity under the influence of my _katra_. Surely there is precedent in Vulcan law for such a thing, and a medical argument could be made as such."

Sarek looks at the both of them with what seems, to McCoy's eye, fatherly tolerance. He privately thinks that neither Jim nor Spock really need to worry about their still-awkward relationship; they appear to be reacclimating rapidly into that old synchronicity with far less trepidation than they had all anticipated – and that, without realizing they are so falling back into old habits.

"I have done, and will do, what I can, Kirk." The familiarity is no longer surprising, but still weird, after spending months in Sarek's household. Sarek's greying eyebrows draw downward in clear disapproval of this whole highly illogical mess. "And rest assured, that should Starfleet be so foolish as to discharge you and your loyal crew, you will always have a future on Vulcan, in some capacity. Including that of captaining a starship, if you wish."

Jim's eyes widen in surprise at that, and Sarek only nods, continuing, "Vulcan, and my house, owe you and your healer a debt we shall never fully repay, Kirk. You have my word, I will see to it that your crew is well cared-for, no matter the outcome of the tribunal tomorrow."

The disgraced admiral, bless him, looks like he's about to pass out with sheer relief and adrenaline crash, and McCoy knows it's time to boot the Vulcans and make sure Jim gets a good hefty sedative so he sleeps at least a few hours before they reconvene tomorrow to learn their fates.

But in the meantime, he finds that he's no longer as cold as he was. Either his body is recovering rapidly from their plunge into the Bay, or else the knowledge that Jim and Spock are conniving with the Vulcans to keep him (and the others, but none of them are as close to optional retirement age as he is) provided for is doing the job intended, warming him from heart to toe.

He still is mighty ticked off at Spock for parking his _katra_ in his brain without permission, but whatever his objections, the fact remains that the events of the last few months have planted him rock-solid in the middle of whatever odd relationship exists between Spock and Kirk. His fate is now intertwined with theirs so closely that it will never be extricable.

And, oddly enough, that doesn't bother him in the least.


	6. Chapter Six

**I.**

He wakes up feeling, for what seems like the first time in years, actually well-rested and free of the general aches and pains which accompany the stress of life aboard ship. It's a rare thing, and a pleasant one, to start the day off feeling ready for anything; it feels like decades since he's slept the night through without being woken by something in Medical or otherwise, and it's an additional treat to even be able to sleep _in_ this morning.

What the occasion is, or what gods are smiling on him today, escapes his memory, but he knows better than to argue with a Good Thing and so he just sets off about his day, a cheerfully-hummed tune on his mind and a spring in his step. All appears calm in Sickbay; his staff report no injuries or illnesses to speak of (though they've had a remarkably long stint of nothing serious wrong with anyone, he thinks, and mentally knocks on wood), and everything in Sciences appears to be proceeding with almost boring normality.

He spends most of his morning in Sickbay, getting filing done on the hundred or so new crewmen they've just taken on at the last two Starbases, and by mid-day mess he's thoroughly tired of looking over boring medical files and almost hoping that somebody, _anybody_ , has a pre-existing medical condition which might make his life a bit more interesting. The paperwork is never-ending, as if every time he looks back at the stack there's another addition to this already ridiculously huge crew (he really has no idea where they're packing everyone in, though the corridors strangely never seem crowded).

Finally, out of sheer boredom and nothing else, he meanders through the corridors, into the turbolift and finally onto the Bridge, absently nodding to the young Security lieutenant who hastily snaps off a salute when he enters.

"Sir!" The young lieutenant-commander sitting in the center chair scrambles comically to his feet, eyes wide. "We weren't expecting you up here on your off day, sir!"

"Relax, Decker," he responds, grinning – because was he ever that green or that young? "Just here to take a look around. Anything interesting going on?"

"Not a thing, sir," the ensign at the science station says dismally. "Just your regulation nebula and the surrounding ionic activity."

"Well, in that case carry on." He gives the incredulous young man a nod and returns to the turbolift, not missing the subtle relaxation of everyone on the gamma shift crew.

He cracks another jaw-wrenching yawn, more boredom than fatigue, and his eyes water as the door closes behind him.

Odd. For just a strange little instant as he grips the control handle inside the lift, he could swear his sleeve is _blue_.

* * *

The weeks pass in an equally monotonous fashion, actually rather boring more than anything else. Strangely enough, this does not appear to alarm any of the crew, and he can hardly blame them, used as they are to chaos and death and destruction out on this contraption, flying through uncharted space under such a volatile young commander. The quietude is reassuring, a pleasant change, to most of them, or so he gathers from the conversations and psych evals he has with various crewmen.

No, apparently only he is the only one who thinks the stint of quiet uneventfulness is at all odd, or even slightly disturbing. Even his head nurse only stares at him incredulously when he mentions how strange it is not to have every Sickbay bio-bed occupied, at this point in the mission. But then again, Tanya Bodine has always been a quiet young woman, a bit too much so to be in the medical profession, McCoy privately thinks. How they don't butt heads he has no idea, what with his stubborn tendency to yell a problem into submission, and her inability to push back at him. But obviously their symbiosis works, because she's been working for him since she was placed aboard. (1)

* * *

Three months later, he's actually wishing they would pilot themselves too close to an asteroid belt or get attacked by a stupidly brave pirate frigate, just so he could treat a casualty that's more serious than a scrape on the hand because some kid didn't wear protective gloves when dealing with Engineering equipment. He doesn't see why he bothered to get a degree in xenobiology if he's never going to have to use it.

His crew doesn't seem to share his opinion; the rest of his alpha shift command chain looks askance at him when he mentions his own unease, and the young lieutenant at the helm mutters to his seat-mate that he suspects McCoy will soon start injuring people himself just to have patients.

This ticks him off, and he cheerfully scrawls his signature across a requisition that will see the kid on two weeks' straight gamma shift in Waste Recycling.

After all, what's the use of being captain of a starship if you can't abuse a little power now and then, he thinks with glee.

* * *

They're charting through familiar space now, sailing merrily along without a care in the world, when his entire alpha shift crew turns to stare at him, as one.

"What?" He scowls, and folds his arms over his chest. "What're you lookin' at?"

"Doctor McCoy, are you feeling well?" Ensign Hendorff asks hesitantly.

"Last I checked, I was capable of diagnosin' myself if need be," he drawls, glaring at the young upstarts who are still gawking at him. "If you've got something to say, better get it out before it sits in there and rots, Mr. Hendorff."

"But sir!" The library sciences lieutenant protests, eyes wide.

"What'd I say?" He's really puzzled by this point, because they were just discussing the geography of their current location in relation to known territory and uncharted space, and he really has no idea what he said…

"Sir." Hendorff clears his throat, and obviously makes an attempt at sounding lighthearted. "You just said we would be passing within four hundred parsecs of where Romulus used to be."

"And?" Honestly, did no one ever teach these kids anything?

"Sir, um. Well, sir…Romulus is still there…nothing's ever been reported to have happened to the planet or surrounding area..."

He blinks, because that's correct, of course; why had he said otherwise?

"Just checking to see if your navigation can hold up to an old man's rambling instruction, Mr. Hendorff," he responds, bland confidence that he doesn't feel infusing the tone with a captainly warmth.

“Old man?”

“…Sir?”

He waves an impatient hand. "Never mind. Carry on, and pay no attention to me."

Like a literal switch has been flipped, the disturbed looks on the faces of his crew suddenly vanish as if a sponge has erased them – a change so complete and so rapid it's a little strange.

He shivers, not really knowing why. (2)

* * *

After what feels like decades but probably isn't, he is in Sickbay restocking supply cupboards (even though they don't really go through much by way of requisitions, he still seems to have to do this more often than should be necessary) when the red alert siren goes off for the first time in ages. The ship lurches under an invisible attack, and a moment later Sickbay explodes into chaos, as several antigrav gurneys are wheeled in carrying patients fighting for their lives.

It's the most adrenaline-fueled six hours he's had in a very long time, and when it's all over and the ship is put to rights, the patients are seen to, and he has time to sit down. He slumps back in his chair and mops his brow, wondering why he ever missed that terrible, gut-wrenching fight to wrest a young life from the clutches of Death itself.

He drags as he goes about the remainder of his day, still strangely exhausted from the previous night, a sleep dotted with strange dreams and hazy visions, scraps and bits and pieces and snatches that he can't make sense of and which are actually very annoying, because they upset his calm and thoroughly _under control_ life. He's got everything he needs, and anything he wants; a rewarding career, a position of power, a life that is free of worry and fear, what seems to be an almost unnatural health and youth – what else could a man wish for?

He yawns, actually annoyed with himself and his world for the first time in many weeks, and begins to fill out the requisite paperwork for crewmen who have now vanished from his Sickbay like spirits in smoke.

* * *

He wakes up with a strangled shout of terror, flinging himself back into that twilight world between the living and the strange spirit-world of dreams with a force that is actually alarming, because he feels fear – stark, terrible, gut-wrenching fear – for the first time in what he only now suddenly realizes is a very, _very_ long time.

As in…he can't even remember (before now, before that nightmare to end all nightmares) what it feels like to be afraid, to even be uneasy – much less terrified as he had been in that sickening world that intruded on his normally well-ordered slumber. He can't ever remember being so afraid, or so angry, or so…

…so anything.

And that one cold realization floods his mind with an acuity he's never felt before in this strange, half-distorted world.

He cannot remember ever feeling anything except a dull sort of peaceful contentment, here.

Wherever _here_ is. He suddenly realizes that wherever it is, it most definitely isn’t what it seems; and for the second time in as many minutes he feels very, very afraid.

* * *

"Computer, who is the captain of this vessel." If nothing else, computers at least cannot lie, or so he hopes; surely he will get some answers.

 _"Working. Current captain of U.S.S._ Enterprise _is Lieutenant-Commander Leonard McCoy."_

He squints at the cheerfully-blinking light, wondering for the first time why that lack of rank never bothered him before now?

"Computer, who is the ranking officer aboard the U.S.S. _Enterprise_?"

 _"Working. Current ranking officer of U.S.S._ Enterprise _is Lieutenant-Commander Leonard McCoy."_

"Computer, describe past command training of Lieutenant-Commander Leonard McCoy."

A blip of silence, then the stuttering whirr of a computer trying to find an answer. Finally, the computer responds, sounding almost unhappy. _"Lieutenant-Commander McCoy has no recorded command training."_

He raises an eyebrow, the habit feeling odd against his usually expressionless face. "State reason for Lieutenant-Commander McCoy being remanded captaincy of this vessel, then."

_"Working."_

He waits, patiently.

_"Working."_

Still waits.

 _"Lieutenant-Commander McCoy is current ranking officer of U.S.S._ Enterprise _."_

He scowls, and finally gives the uncooperative machine a gentle thump to the nearest console. "Computer, who _is_ the Starfleet-appointed captain of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_?"

_"Insufficient data."_

"What the – computer, what rank should Lieutenant-Commander McCoy hold aboard this vessel?"

_"Lieutenant-Commander McCoy is Chief Medical Officer aboard U.S.S. Enterprise."_

"I thought you just said he was the captain?"

_"Lieutenant-Commander McCoy is the current ranking officer aboard the –"_

"Oh, shut up, you stupid hunk of junk," he snarls, and aims a grumpy kick at the console. "Blasted things can't be trusted over a human brain anyhow."

Why has it never occurred to him before, that he can't hold two ranks at once, both captain and chief medical officer? The only time in Starfleet history that a crewman has held two command-capable positions simultaneously on a constitution-class starship was when –

When –

He stops, stares into space in genuine alarm.

He should _know_ this. (3)

* * *

He holes up in his cabin under pretext of a headache for the next two days, which is incongruous in itself because he now can see that in the months – years? Decades? – he's been in this place, he's never had an ache or a pain, not so much as a twinge of discomfort. His medical staff just coddles him with smiling, vacant expressions of sympathy and reassurance that he isn't needed just now and to take care of himself, etc., etc.

It's _disgusting_ , and he can't understand why he didn't see through the vacuous platitudes before now.

Has he been conditioned? Brainwashed? The Klingons have that capability according to rumors of their mind-sifter (though he honestly can't tell where that thought comes from), but why would they bother wiping his memory selectively and dumping him on board a ship that for all intents and purposes looks like the old _Enterprise_? (How does he know that the _Enterprise_ has had more than one look, anyway?) And how would they get so many people to play along? The entire crew complement of over 900 people, all of whom seem to know him intimately – how could so many be equally delusional? How can he have such selective amnesia, along with the whole crew? And why does this _Enterprise_ seem so beautifully, wonderfully familiar, and yet jar harshly against the last memory he has of it, all greys and maroons and dark greens instead of almost garish visions of scarlet and blue and sunshiny gold? Why has he been made to forget –

And, more importantly, _who_ has he been made to forget? (4)

* * *

In the end, it's so simple, so anticlimactic. Just a suggestion, a precious hint of a connection that still lingers despite decades – even a century – of disconnect. One tiny little link, accidentally formed and innocently preserved, that has lain dormant for so many years; a bond strong enough to transcend the power of the grave in order to resurrect Memory. He laughs a little bitterly, because his life reads like a poorly-written novel; something about the power of love being able to reach past the barriers of universes and defeat Death itself, able to break down walls and shine the gentle light of Truth into a mind searching desperately to orient itself. An anchor in the storm, and without it he would still be lost, in this place.

For a single, calm moment he has no idea the block over that portion of his mind has been broken – and then, he remembers everything.

 _Everything_.

Decades of growing older, wiser, sadder – becoming admiral, an honor he laughed at and got drunk over with friends old and new. Years of teaching at Starfleet Academy, watching more cocky young cadets race through their young lives starry-eyed, waiting for a ship of their own in the treacherously alluring cosmos of space exploration. Finally, well past his centennial, retiring to work as an honorary member of the Vulcan Scientific Council, consulting with the most brilliant minds in the world over things that would have made his poor country doctor's head spin had it happened eighty years earlier, before his life became inextricably intertwined with a very peculiar half-Vulcan. (5)

Jim Kirk, aging gracefully but somewhat irritably, agreeing to one last public appearance on the _Enterprise_ -B's maiden voyage, just to keep up appearances and to encourage the petrified young man who was stepping into some mighty big shoes. Sitting in his quarters off Sarek's massive ancestral estate, and receiving the news that the _Enterprise_ -B had met with minor tragedy in the form of an energy storm. Very few casualties, but one very notable one that had the holonets afire with the biggest news story to break in decades. (6)

It had been fitting, he had thought even through his tears at the time, that Jim should go out saving his ship; and yet, McCoy knew Kirk's worst fear had been that he would die alone, and alone he did.

Standing outside the massive non-denominational chapel that Starfleet used for high-profile memorial services, watching as a proud figure bowed his head and admitted reluctance to enter the building, through a voice more brittle with grief than any full Vulcan would ever dream of showing to anyone. For the last time, patting the thin shoulder underneath a coal-black Vulcan mourning robe, and trying to find the words to comfort that he hadn't been able to offer Jim when it had been Spock's funeral decades before. Knowing, somehow, even then, that Jim’s death hadn’t just cost him one friend, but two. (7)

Because it had been the last time he saw Spock; the Vulcan buried himself in his ambassadorial work soon after, and within two years disappeared into thin air on Romulus, though that last was known only to a select few within Starfleet Command due to the covert nature of his unification work. McCoy was left alone, and alone he remained for many more years. (8)

He remembers seeing, without any real enthusiasm, the launch of the _Enterprise_ -C on galactic holo-net, and then actually visiting the _Enterprise_ -D toward the beginning of her maiden voyage into uncharted space. He shudders, remembering how very old he had been – the gracelessness of being so old that it was just flat wrong to God's creation, to look and act like a cranky old man with one foot in the grave. (9)

And then, twenty years later…

Twenty years later he had been edging closer and closer to his deathbed; medical technology in those days could make a man live well past one hundred fifty, the oldest recorded case being one hundred ninety-three, but he really had no desire to live that long. There was just something wrong with being that old, when no man was meant to see that much, live that many decades and centuries all alone.

And then, in 2387, he remembers…watching the holovids through an old man's vision as the Romulan sun begins to go nova, threatening to destroy the Romulan Star Empire. The rumors that some unnamed scientist on Romulus had a plan to save the planet through an ingenious invention which would create a temporary black hole in space, one which would absorb the imploding star and then implode upon itself soon after, saving all around from destruction.

The Vulcan grapevine, two days later, saying that that the Romulan Star Empire is gone – and with it, Starfleet's undercover ambassador, Spock of Vulcan – missing in action, presumed dead. (10)

Missing in action, presumed dead, just as Jim had been almost ninety years before.

Was it any wonder, that he rather thought he was entitled to stop existing in a frail, crotchety shell for much longer after that?

He comes back to himself with a gasp and a shudder, Memory slotting into place neatly and cleanly and with such blazing clarity that he wonders anew how he could have existed in such a torpid reality for so long without realizing that something huge was missing from his life?

Is this truly Paradise, Valhalla, the afterlife, whatever you want to call it, a kindly erasing of memory of all that might possibly be painful to recall? Is this some deity's inhuman – literally, not human – idea of a utopia, a world involving an entire lack of that emotion which is the best and worst about being human?

If so, does he truly want to live in such an afterlife?

More importantly, where the heck are Jim and Spock, if he's finally dead too, and stuck on this ship for the second time in his life – lives – whatever?

Where _are_ they?

* * *

It takes him a good two months to find Jim.

In that interim, he spends the majority of his time (when he's not trying to fuddle through his duties as captain, and what a sick sense of humor the gods have to drop him into this for his afterlife) discovering the boundaries and limitations of this bizarre new existence. He finds that while they are capable of being hurt in this universe (nothing so drastic as self-harm, but he thinks he can be forgiven stunning himself with a phaser blast in the interests of science), the pain lasts only for a moment, and healing is nearly instantaneous.

It's simultaneously fascinating and creepy, as if a sci-fi flick has just come to life in front of him and he's playing god with human lives and physiology. He has no idea why medical doctors even exist in this strange universe, if this is true; their primary purpose must be to comfort rather than to heal.

He also discovers that there are very few emotions in this world. He seems to now have his head on straight thanks to a Vulcan mind-dump a century before helping him make sense of things; but everyone else seems to be just vacantly content, pleased with their surroundings and lives and personal affairs. While it's not quite stagnation, it's also not quite healthy growth and development for any species – but any efforts on his part to disrupt this balance of peace in paradise is met only with incredulity and utter failure to elicit some kind of response.

Well, then. There's nothing for it but to take control of what he knows and go from there.

* * *

He does a pretty darn good job as captain of this ship, more because he knows what's going on as opposed to having actual command training; but he's known Jim Kirk for decades, and you can't be around the man but pick up some habits and pointers from his uniquely successful command style. He weaves through the galaxy on milk runs for the most part, easily navigating what appears to be a pointless rat-race of pleasant missions that makes their original five-year mission seem like Armageddon.

He discovers through the galactic net's database that everyone he suspects of being dead in his universe is here, in this one, with the odd exception of Spock and, weirdly enough, Scotty. (11) After some maneuvering around the computer's stubborn programming, he does finally discover that Jim Kirk is alive in this universe, and apparently living on Deneva with his brother and family.

He doesn't really look forward to disillusioning the poor man about his paradise, but McCoy's his first and best destiny is to stand behind Jim and poke fun at the hobgoblin, not captain a starship. If he doesn't get Kirk to understand and realize what has happened to them, he's abandoning his friend and his superior officer to a life of stagnation and disadvantaged consciousness, paradise or not. He has to hope that if Spock’s residual mind-madness allowed him to push through the fog in this world, surely it can do the same for Jim, given they were even closer in their lives.

And so he sets course for Deneva, getting him some weird looks from his crew but no real resistance; their utopian mindsets apparently don't encourage opposition. (12)

* * *

Lucky for him, Jim Kirk is just this shade of stubborn-enough-to-be-dangerous, and that is what will help him convince the man that there's something wrong in their Eden.

He can see the moment the light dawns, and he thanks every deity in the universe that Spock had made such an indelible impression on them through the decades that it's that power of logic and deep-rooted emotion (yes, he knows doggone well Spock feels, and that's not just due to storing his soul for a few weird weeks) which enable them to break through the mental blocks that apparently are there for their protection in this strangely benign utopia.

The next minute he's hugging a newly-awakened James T. Kirk, who is not quite crying into his shoulder, murmuring something about him looking so much better than when they met for the last time (he'd been very ill with a minor stroke just before the _Enterprise_ -B's maiden voyage, one reason he had declined the offer to attend the ceremonies), and the next minute Jim's stepped back and is staring at him, hands dramatically fisted on his hips and looking every inch the annoyed captain he is.

"Why in the name of all that's logical are you wearing my shirt?" the man demands, his now-boyish face scowling like a cranky toddler before bedtime.

"I'm glad to hand it back to you, _Captain_ ," he retorts, plucking disgustedly at the triple braid on his sleeves. "Even my half-blind grandmamma knows this isn't a color for a blue-eyed boy."

Jim grins then, a blindingly and breathtakingly familiar gesture that makes him look so young that it's a little sad, a little happy, and a whole lot _wonderful_. "We've got so much to talk about, don't we?" the captain asks, running a hand tenderly along the gleaming durasteel wall of his beloved ship's corridor. “Bones, you’ll never guess where I was for…I don’t know, probably decades, before I had the chance to go back and see Earth one last time. And then ended up here, apparently…”

He returns the smile, and feels the world shift another fraction closer to _rightness_. Things have changed, their worlds have changed; but he now feels like possibly, just possibly, they may eventually adjust to this strange new frontier.

"Hey, do you think in so-called Valhalla I can eat whatever I want without you putting me on a diet, Bones? The Nexus never did get the taste of Terran coffee right."

Annnnd some things never do change…

* * *

It's a good six months, before it happens.

Jim's on the Bridge (no one even blinked at the shift in command when he arrived on board, which makes the whole thing that much weirder), trying to make sense of the altered history they can remember but not find in the books anywhere, and he's standing close by trying to correlate medical paperwork (now that he knows what's going on, he realizes that the crewmen who remain behind after he treats them means they've died in their own world; weirdly enough then, the ones who disappear mean they've won the fight against death and returned to their lives).

The alarm goes off to signal an incoming transport from Transporter Room One.

"We're at warp, you can't transport onto a ship traveling at warp," Kirk says, eyebrows raised at the alert.

"Well, you can in 2387, at least according to the Vulcan Science Academy's last calculations –"

"Bones." A hand waves carelessly in his direction, clearly dismissing his for-once superior knowledge. Eerily enough, no one else on the Bridge even pays attention to the oddness of their conversation. The captain steps easily from his chair, giving it a smile and a soft pat of affection, which should be weird but actually isn't, all things considered and compared. "Let's go see who it is, then!"

"It had better not be some old girlfriend of yours, is all I'm sayin'," he mutters, but follows the man willingly enough into the turbolift.

* * *

There's no one manning the in-use transporter when they arrive, which should be strange but is by far not the weirdest thing to happen here, and so Jim takes a station at the controls just in case while they both watch the coalescing particles flow into a structured column and begin to take shape. A body slowly materializes on the transporter pad's stabilization plate, gradually becoming more solid as they watch a flawless transport take place.

And finally, his breath catches in his throat, because there's no mistaking the tall, elegant figure that steps uncertainly down from the transporter, looking openly surprised and puzzled for the first time in his very long life.

McCoy hasn't seen Spock in decades, and even then he knew Spock was aging beyond his years due to his half-human heritage. He would have been nearly a hundred and fifty when Romulus imploded, elderly even by half-Vulcan standards.

But now – now Spock looks like he just stepped off the transporter returning from an early away mission; there is no grey in his immaculate hair, no wrinkles marring the austere lack of expression on his face. Only his eyes, warm and sparkling with scientific curiosity and utter surprise, betray his feelings for the moment – that of complete mystification, and inability to comprehend when and why and how and where did the old uniform come from.

Jim, the reckless idiot, pushes past him with a whoop of greeting and further startles the poor Vulcan by flinging his arms around him in an enormous clinging hug that makes him seem even younger than he is, in this strangely innocent universe.

Spock meets his gaze over Jim's shoulder, eyes wide and pleading for assistance with this most illogical of human behavior.

McCoy grins evilly.

Some things remain universal constants, apparently; even without knowing quite what is happening, Spock manages to make it very, very clear by both vocalization and squirming that he does not appreciate being the filling in a Vulcan-human sandwich. But to heck with Vulcan personal space, because in this bland, perfect universe the worst Spock can do is nerve-pinch them, and there’s no guarantee that will even work.

And the idea of having _forever_ to think up new ways to torment his arrogant young captain and that green-blooded katra-dumper suddenly makes this strange little paradise seem just that much brighter.

That much more like _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This was a clue to those who have read most of my TOS written canon; Nurse Tanya Bodine was killed three months after boarding the Enterprise, trying to save the life of a crewman during a fire in Engineering in A Celebration in Infinite Combinations.  
> (2) The time which we see in ST:09 regarding the destruction of Romulus could conceivably been while McCoy was still alive. He would have been very, very old, but it is possible, and I'm twisting a bit of time and space to make that happen here.  
> (3) Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe the only recorded instant in Trek canon of an officer holding two ranking positions was when Spock was both First Officer and Chief Science Officer on the original Enterprise.  
> (4) Non-TNG fans won't know that McCoy visited the TNG Enterprise as an admiral during the early episode Encounter at Farpoint; he was an adorably cranky old man who gave the android Data a hard time about not having "points on his ears."  
> (5) This is speculation on my part.  
> (6) In Generations, Captain Kirk was a guest on the maiden voyage of a not-fully-functional Enterprise-B. The ship encountered an energy field called the Nexus, which threatened to destroy the ship, and Kirk disappeared when the part of the ship he was working in was ripped away and exposed to space. He was presumed dead, though later in the movie we find that he was instead absorbed into the pseudo-paradise world of the Nexus, also referenced here.  
> (7) This was a supposedly planned scene from Generations that was deleted, due to the fact that DeForrest Kelley was too ill at the time to star in the movie.  
> (8) Timelines are a bit confusing during the TNG era, but at some point before the events of Generations, Spock disappeared undercover on Romulus, working toward a unification between Vulcan and Romulus. I've twisted this just a tad to include the deleted scene from Generations, as that doesn't agree with the TNG Unification episodes, in which we see Spock again for the first time since The Undiscovered Country.  
> (9) Again, McCoy visits the Enterprise-D in Encounter at Farpoint, making a point to refuse the transporter in favor of a shuttlecraft, with Data as escort. This was his last appearance in the Star Trek screen canon.  
> (10) McCoy would be pretty much ancient by this point in the timeline, but with futuristic technology it is conceivable that he was still alive, kept so by medical devices and so on. I've stretched this point just a tad to make it fit into this storyline.  
> (11) Scotty is trapped in a transporter beam for decades and is released onto the TNG Enterprise in the episode Relics; he would most likely still be alive at this point in time, as he would have been in middle-aged stasis for so many years.  
> (12) Kirk does finally die at the end of Generations, which occurs before the events of ST:09. However, since he was buried on Veridian III by Captain Picard, I doubt Starfleet would make a big hoopla over his 'return' when they had much bigger problems, such as the Enterprise saucer section just crash landing nearby on Veridian IV.


End file.
